The Greatest Game
by Wildmagic-Warrior
Summary: Before "A Scandal in Belgravia", because the resolution to the cliffhanger was a total copout. NOT Watson/Sherlock. Rated "K plus" for mild swearing and almost-death. Unfortunately, I do not own Sherlock, Watson, or the show.


At first, the game had seemed like a series of unrelated cases. Sherlock Holmes refused to believe that anyone was as brilliant as he, and for good reason. He was a genius, and one of the best detectives on the planet. Who would dare toy with him?

Then someone tried to blow up his flat. That was the first warning. That was when he started to see that there might be more to this case than somebody playing a prank. There was the pink phone, and the pips. A hostage was taken. A pair of shoes was found in the basement. The person who had devised the game was as much a genius as the famed Sherlock Holmes, perhaps even more so. The detective solved the case in time; the hostage was rescued, but another was taken in her place. There were more pips and more puzzles, but it remained a game that Sherlock was determined to win.

Then the killer made a mistake.

He made things personal.

Sherlock Holmes was not a fan of _personal_.

Having a brother to worry about was bad enough, but dragging others into his business was far worse. So now he found himself standing by the edge of a silent swimming pool at something past midnight, facing a man as brilliant as himself. At this point, he had three things. An arch enemy, which he had once been told didn't exist, a gun, and a choice.

John Watson was not armed, but he sorely wished that he was. Just a few moments ago he had been strapped inside a jacket packed with enough explosives to bring down a house, forced to dictate the words of the man now standing before him. The jacket lay on the floor between Sherlock and his newfound nemesis, Jim Moriarty. Red laser sights showed that six snipers, if not more, were positioned all around them, each one aiming directly at the doctor and the detective. John clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling his hands begin to shake. He knew that Sherlock would have to choose between shooting Moriarty or blowing him up, but both options ended in death for just about everyone involved. Sherlock must have known that, too; from the way the silence dragged on, he must have been trying to think of a way out. Suddenly, the crack of gunshot split the air. A bullet hit the floor near the detective's feet, shattering the blue tiles.

John saw the confident smile on Moriarty's face slip for just a moment, and his left eye twitched. Something was wrong- he hadn't intended for that to happen. But the game was over. One of his shooters had 'jumped the gun', so to speak, and the tables were slowly turning.

"Kill them," he said, brushing down the front of his suit as though it were dirty. A moment passed- one silent second during which there was no movement at all. Then the bullets began to fly. One of them grazed the side of John's head and a second buried itself in the flesh just underneath his ribs; another hit Sherlock in the shoulder, forcing him to drop his gun. Moriarty watched for a split second before turning to leave, and suddenly John had a notion. A tiny, crazy, unthinkable thought, but something told him that it was right. Darting forwards, the army doctor grabbed Sherlock around the middle and tackled him into the pool. They hit the water and sank like stones as the bullets meant for them hit the explosive jacket instead.

The water deadened the sound, but a shockwave rippled around them as the explosion opened a huge hole in the tiled floor. Water flooded into it, churning up the dust and rubble as the pool began to empty out. John fought against the current that threatened to crush him against the jagged edges of the broken floor, and hoped that Sherlock was doing the same. As he managed to grab the edge and haul himself out of the quickly draining pool, the doctor suddenly realized his mistake. Sherlock Holmes might have been one of the most brilliant men to ever live, and he might have been the world's only consulting detective, but he was still human, and he had been shot. He would be unconscious, or in shock, and he was nowhere to be seen.

Turning quickly, John glanced over the surface of the pool, looking for anything that might show him- and then he saw it. The edge of a hand, barely visible beneath the surface of the murky brown water. For a moment John fought with himself, afraid of what he might find. Then he splashed back into the broken pool, grabbing the hand and reaching down. His fingers touched skin first, and then the collar of a jacket. He grabbed it, hauling Sherlock to the surface. His face was tinged blue, eyes closed, he didn't seem to be breathing. Clumsily, John dragged the detective to the edge of the pool and somehow got him out of the water. He checked for a pulse, but felt nothing.

"There's still time," he muttered to himself, undoing the buttons of Sherlock's jacket. "Four minutes, John Watson." He put his hands on Sherlock's chest and started CPR, knowing that he had less time than he gave himself.

"You're a psychopath who puts your life in danger because you're _bored_," he said, loudly. "You play that awful violin until all hours of the night. You _never_ eat. You keep _severed heads_ in the _refrigerator_. You're arrogant, conceited, devoid of social skills of any kind and god_dammit_ Sherlock Holmes! You're my friend, so don't you _dare_ die on me!" John checked for a pulse and felt nothing, then looked at his watch. Time was up. He sat back on his heels, staring blankly at the wall, an overwhelming sense of painful failure beginning to crash down on him.

He had served in Afghanistan, so one would think that he was used to things like this. Truth was, even though he had seen people he knew die, it still didn't make any difference. Any life he couldn't save was an abysmal failure on his part, and it weighed on his conscious like murder.

A sudden noise in the silence brought John's mind crashing back to earth. Sherlock was twitching slightly, choking deep in his throat. The doctor sprang forwards to sit him up, wrapping his arms around the detective's stomach and using the Heimlich maneuver until he began to cough the water out of his lungs. The doctor kept him upright until he stopped choking and began gasping in air. After a few moments his breathing stabilized and John laid him carefully down, checking again for a pulse. It was faint, but steady.

"You'll live," he said, almost as if it were an order.

"It would appear so," came a quiet hoarse voice, accompanied by a small cough. John watched as Sherlock opened his eyes halfway and looked up.

"You were shot in the shoulder," explained the doctor. "But you should be fine if we can get you to the hospital soon enough. I think you might be in shock, so-"

The detective interrupted him, asking, "Do I get one of those blankets?" His voice was whispery and strange, almost as if he were talking in his sleep.

"No," John replied, "But now I know you're in shock." Sherlock smiled slightly, and made a quiet noise that might have been a giggle.

Then he stopped suddenly and said, "I almost died, didn't I? I might still die. So could you." The army doctor glanced at him and then away, without saying a word. Sherlock's voice was quiet as he added, "I don't want to die, John. Not now. Not yet."

"You won't," John assured him, trying to force a smile. "I'm going to see if there's anyone outside who can call the hospital."

He started to get up, but paused when Sherlock commented, "You're bleeding. Lucky that shooter was left-handed, or you'd have been dead before you hit the ground." John didn't ask how he knew, but he did put a hand to the left side of his head.

He jerked his fingers back with a quiet "_Ouch!_" as his touch stung the wound. He could feel the dull ache in his midriff where a second bullet was buried, but for now the adrenaline was holding the pain at bay. Sticky, half-dried blood ran down the side of his face as well as spreading a crimson stain across his shirt.

"I'll be alright," he said, wiping his hands on his pants as he got to his feet. "I've had worse."

Sherlock made his strange little giggling noise again, then fell silent. John watched him for a second to make sure that he hadn't passed out, and then turned towards the entrance of the building. A pile of rubble from the explosion blocked the door, but the doctor was able to pick his way over and half-scramble, half-slide down the other side. A crowd had gathered, consisting of frightened people in their pajamas.

When they saw John make his way out they dithered, unsure of what to do. "Have any of you-" the doctor began, but he suddenly felt dizzy and nauseous. "Any of you called... called the..." He was suddenly unsure of what he had come out here to say. Something about Sherlock, or a hospital, but it was all fuzzy in his mind. Black spots streaked across his vision, trailing darkness behind them. The earth bucked beneath his feet, throwing him off balance. He toppled over and hit the ground, feeling everything spin down into unconsciousness.

A quiet, out-of-place bleeping woke him up, but as John Watson slowly opened his eyes he realized that the sound was not the only thing that was strange. He was on his back- he never slept on his back. The ceiling was white, not brown, and he couldn't smell dust or mildew. In fact, he couldn't smell anything. There was only one place that could possibly be so clean.

The doctor became aware of an IV tube attached to his wrist, and was careful not to tug on it as he sat himself slowly up. A stabbing pain beneath his ribs made him wince and suck in a sharp breath as he attempted to turn and glance around the ward. There was only one other person, it seemed, and they were sitting in the bed across from him. They were holding a newspaper, making it impossible for John to see their face.

After a moment, the doctor quietly cleared his throat and said, "Hello?" The person paused in the middle of turning a page, and then lowered their newspaper. It wasn't Sherlock.

"Oh, hello," he said in a tired voice, folding up his paper and setting it aside. "Good to see you're awake. They brought you in early yesterday. You looked pretty bad; good they were able to fix you up so quick." His voice sounded almost bitter as he finished the sentence.

John frowned, confused and slightly worried. "Just me?" he asked, carefully turning his head to look around the room again.

"Yeah," replied the man, picking his newspaper back up and unfolding it.

"Nobody else?" John prodded, his worry deepening. "You're sure I was the only person?"

The man lowered his paper again with an irritated look on his face, but before he could reply the door at the end of the room opened quietly and a tall man walked in. It was Inspector Lestrade, from the police. He closed the door and turned around, spotting John and walking over to him.

"You're probably wondering-" he began, but the army doctor cut him off.

"Just- tell me if he's alive."

Lestrade seemed slightly miffed at being interrupted, but after a short pause he nodded and John felt a weight life from his shoulders. "They've stitched him up, and the doctor says that he'll be fine if he gives it time to heal," added the inspector.

John smothered a laugh, earning an odd look from Lestrade. "It's just that I can't see Sherlock sitting around and waiting," said the doctor, by way of explanation. "You've seen what he's like."

The sound of the door opening stopped him from commenting further, and John looked past Lestrade to see a doctor come in carrying a clipboard. He walked past the inspector and glanced first at the quietly beeping machine, then at the IVs. He tapped one gently before looking down at the papers on his clipboard.

"You've suffered from severe blood loss," he said after a moment. "But you responded well to fluids and we've given you stitches, so you should be alright if you take it easy for a little while." He took John's wrist and removed the bandage that held the tubes in place, drawing out the needle and setting it aside. "If you want to get up," he said, stepping back, "Feel free. Everything's taken care of; if you feel up to it, we can send you home later this afternoon."

He nodded to Lestrade, checked his clipboard, and left the room. John carefully put his legs out of the bed and stood up, grimacing at the sharp pain in his midriff. A dull ache pounded behind his eyes, but it was bearable. He spotted a clean set of clothes folded neatly on a chair nearby; a note pinned to them read

_"Get better soon, dear. Sherlock is a menace on his own. **-Ms. Hudson.**"_

Picking up the clothes with a slight smile, John glanced around the ward until he spotted the door of a bathroom. Politely excusing himself, he made his way across the room and went in, locking the door behind him. He dressed as quickly as he could, carefully avoiding the bandages plastered just below his ribs.

As he turned to leave, the doctor caught sight of his reflection in a mirror. A neat line of stitches marched across his left temple, ending just before his hairline. A scar for sure, but he was lucky that he hadn't died. John turned away from his reflection and left the bathroom, realizing suddenly just how fortunate he had been to have escaped the explosion alive and relatively unharmed.

Lestrade was waiting for him by the door of the ward, and together the doctor and the inspector took an elevator down to the lobby of the hospital. It was crowded and noisy, and John's headache had come back in force. He followed Lestrade, doing his best to avoid bumping into people as he was led across the room.

A long line of wide windows let light into the lobby, and just in front of them was a large semicircle of overstuffed chairs and couches. Only one of them was being sat in; it had been dragged away from the others and turned around so that the occupant would not have to look at or talk to anyone else in the room.

John could only see the back of his head, but the dark curls were enough to tell him who he was looking at.

Lestrade cleared his throat noisily and said, "Sherlock?"

The man in the chair did not turn around- in fact, he hardly responded at all. He made a sort of despondent grunting sound before falling silent once more. Lestrade tried again.

"There's somewhere here to see you," he said.

This time, Sherlock spoke. "If it's another person from the police, I swear to God I'm going to-" He turned his head and caught sight of the two people behind him. The detective was immediately on his feet and, for what seemed like the first time, at a complete loss for words. Finally he swallowed, fidgeted with his cufflinks, and then said, "John."

The doctor put his hands in his pockets and replied, "Sherlock." There was an awkward silence, during which Lestrade made his excuses and got away.

"Ironic, isn't it?" said Sherlock after a few moments, glancing around the lobby and avoiding eye contact with John.

"What is?" asked the doctor, suddenly not at all in the mood to deal with the detective.

"That we're laid up in the same hospital that Mor- that he masqueraded in. Right under my nose, too."

"We're not _laid up_," snapped John. "Stop being so dramatic."

Sherlock glanced at him and then looked away, saying, "I suppose an expression of gratitude would be... appreciated?"

"Yeah, I suppose so," replied the doctor angrily. His headache was getting worse, and Sherlock was _not_ helping.

"So, thank you," said the detective. "And, I'm sorry, John. About... things."

John looked up at him, eyebrows lowered questioningly. "What?" he asked, just to make sure.

"You heard me," replied the detective, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a pair of black gloves. "I'm not saying it again." He pulled on his gloves, and John noticed that he was being extra careful with his right shoulder. As soon as his gloves were on, Sherlock headed for the door.

"Are you sure we're allowed?" asked John, following him. "I mean, I haven't even checked out or anything."

"I'll have Lestrade take care of it," replied Sherlock, reaching the curb of the street just outside the hospital. "You're being heralded as a hero, you know. Taxi!" A black cab swung over and halted just long enough for the detective and the doctor to climb in. "221 Baker Street," Sherlock told the cabbie before sitting back.

There was silence in the car for a long time until John finally asked, "Did Moriarty get away?"

Sherlock glanced out of the window nearest him and replied, "Obviously." His voice was bitter and angry.

"What are we going to do now?" prompted John.

The detective turned his head to look at the army doctor silently.

After a while he replied, "There's a professional criminal out there somewhere. He hates to lose, has two days head start and is- although I hate to admit it- every bit as brilliant as myself. What do you _think_ I'm going to do?"

John was lost for answers, so he shrugged and replied, "I have no idea. What's your plan?"

Sherlock smiled, looking out of the window again. "First," he answered, "I'm going to have a cup of tea. And then, John Watson," he glanced back at his friend, his smile broadening to show teeth, "We are going to catch him."


End file.
